


Love, Blood, And Rhetoric

by isitandwonder



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bloodplay, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Comeplay, Knifeplay, M/M, dark!Armie, dom!armie, sub!timmy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-17 12:52:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13659369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: This was inspired by Armie and Timmy at the L'Officiel party. Fair warning, it might get a little dark.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently, the title is retrieved from Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead by Tom Stoppard.  
>  **Usual RPF disclaimer: I don't know these people, this is a work of ficiton, nothing featured in this story happened for real.**

Armie was looking up at his boy from where he sat at the table, playing with a cigarette between his fingers before taking an almost greedy drag. Timmy was distracted from the chatter around him, playing with his phone, his delicate pale face illuminated by its display. The harsh light made his feature stand out more prominently, especially in the festive gloom of the large reception room.

There were people everywhere, talking, drinking, hugging while greeting each other. It was the typical New Yorker gathering of the rich and famous, spiced by the addition of the not so rich but soon to be famous. Timmy clearly fell in the latter category while Armie and Liz belonged to the first – at least in LA. Here, however, Armie felt unusually timid, a little out of place.

He knew virtually no one in the New York fashion world and, observing the fake smiles all around, couldn’t bring himself to see this circumstance as lacking or summon the energy to remedy it. He'd toured Europe in a track suit just a few weeks back, for fuck’s sake. Truth be told, all this pimping-up seemed a little silly to him.

The last couple days had been exhausting. Liz had first insisted on going to New York and then on attending some fashion shows Armie didn’t care about. Not when Timmy was still in LA and they could have had a few days to themselves without awards ceremonies.

But his wife had been very… accommodating, to say the least, so when she wanted to go to New York with him – alone – they would go to New York together. He couldn’t deny her that after what she was putting up with on his behalf.

Though, to be fair, it wasn’t as if she got nothing out of it in return. By giving in to him and Timmy exploring what had developed between them, she had Armie in a place where she wanted him: unable to argue with her on other things, like her TV work, their children’s education or the bakery management. Liz knew how to play quit pro quo. She wasn’t a passive third wheel; instead, she made use of the situation to her advantage.

Another incentive was that Armie could now live his darker desires with Timmy, which made him much more relaxed during everyday family life. It was a relieve to be once more able to pursue what he needed, almost craved, but which he had suppressed after getting married.

Only, by now, he needed Timmy constantly.

The months after Crema had been hell. Luckily enough, he’d been shooting an action movie, so all his pent-up sexual energy had gone into running, fighting, and jumping off buildings. It had helped for a while and kept him sane, at least until Sundance and Berlin.

But after these two events, Armie had decided that he couldn’t be parted from Timmy for too long. Therefore, he had lived at the Hammer villa in LA during spring, while filming Beautiful Boy. Watching Timmy transform into a thin pale junky had been both disturbing but also utterly erotic. Armie had been able to hold both of Timmy’s slender wrists in one of his hands above his head while he’d kneeled above his face, forcing his cock down Timmy’s pliant throat.

They both had to learn that Timmy bruised much more easily after losing weight. On the up side, as he’d become almost skeletal Armie had been able to just pick him up and bend him in any position he’d wanted him in. Watching how his healthy, tanned body drove into Timmy’s white, skinny frame had some time been nearly too much, the contrast so stark that it was both intoxicating and frightening. 

Armie had been totally in charge, but with that had come responsibility for Timmy. He’d feared he might brake him yet he simply couldn’t stop as he forced Timmy to take it and take it, tying him up, gagging him, chocking him, even beating him (only with the flat palm of his hand as not to leave tell-tale marks). The night after Timmy had wrapped his film, Armie even took a hunting knife to his body, licking rivulets of blood from his marble limbs until he’d come all over Timmy’s stomach, the heated taste of copper filling his mouth.

It was good that Timmy had left the day after. Otherwise, Armie would simply have devoured him whole.

There had been meetings during summer, a few stolen days in New York or Toronto, before in autumn the promotion had got rolling in earnest. Now, they were used to being more often together than apart – with the exemption of those horrible days over Christmas and Timmy’s birthday, but they’d made up for this afterwards – which meant that a few days spend without Timmy made Armie grumpy and irritable. He tried to fight his wrath with too much booze and too many cigarettes (and the odd spliff), leaving him still unhappy but also tired and hung-over in addition. Even his kids started to notice.

That’s why Liz had called Timmy this afternoon and urged him to join them at the L’Officiel release party as soon as he stepped off his plane from LA.

“He needs you.” She’d said. “Prepare yourself for quite a session.”

She’d almost heard Timmy flush with excitement at the other end of the line.

And now he was here, standing next to Armie, a little too close, playing it cool, trying not to show his nervous anticipation as he fiddled with his stupid phone.

The sounds in the large room became white noise in the background as Armie stared up at him through a fog of smoke: his delicate fingers tapping on the screen that would claw to Armie’s skin after being freed from rope; his perfect pink mouth that stretched so exquisitely around Armie’s huge cock by now, without the slightest resistance when he wanted to fuck his throat; his dark curls that would look disheveled and sweaty in a few hours, plastered against his temples after Armie’d taken him apart.

Right now, Armie wanted nothing more than to tie up Timmy’s bony wrists behind his back, pull his hair until he screamed and begged, and fuck him unconscious in his large hotel bed.

But first, they had to get through this dinner. Despite his growing irritation, Armie felt his cock twitch in his bespoke trousers. He patted the chair next to him and without as much as looking, Timmy sank down to sit next to him.

Armie smiled.

“Good boy.” He whispered into Timmy’s ear, leaning in. When he offered Timmy his cigarette, the boy sucked at it, taking a deep drag while his lips touched Armie’s finger still holding the stud. His eyes were boring into Armie’s as two bright red spots bloomed on his high cheekbones.

“Later.” Armie told him, squeezing his thigh once, hard, his thump brushing up its inside until it pressed against the head of Timmy’s erection for just a second. Timmy blew smoke back into Armie’s face before gulping down his chilled white wine.

As Armie removed his hand, it was Timmy’s turn to lean close. His breath smelled of wine and bubble gum as it ghosted over Armie’s neck: “I missed you so fucking hard.”  
Armie couldn’t suppress a smile as he moved his chair a little backwards. If he didn’t bring some distance between them now, he wouldn’t be able to vouch for his actions. 

Bending your young co-star over the banqueting table wasn’t deemed acceptable behavior, not even in New York.

“Me too, honey. But I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

“Later?” Timmy grinned, a wicked spark in his sea-green eyes.

And suddenly, Armie had enough of this teasing, the boring event, the people laying claim to him, who wanted pics or a witty quip from le muvi star. All he wanted right now was having Timmy on his knees, begging for his cock in his mouth and his come on his face.

“Why delay the inevitable. Meet me in the gents in five.” With that, Armie stubbed out his cigarette, drained his glass in one go and marched off to find the toilets.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie has a knife and uses it on Timmy. There will be blood.

Up until recently, Armie had hated sex in toilets. The gents were simply not a place to have any sort of carnal relations in his opinion. He wasn't a prude or overtly squeamish, but he'd been unable to comprehend how people could want to have intercourse where others... well, shat and pissed.

That had been before he'd started to carry on with his male co-star. Now, he's grateful for the small comforts a restroom can provide – it's private, easily accessible and can be found virtually in every building. They'd made out in quite a few public lavatories by now – at Grant Central station, at Sony Pictures headquarters, at the Shrine auditorium, to count but the grandest and probably riskiest.

Still, that doesn't mean that Armie likes it. He'd prefer a large hotel room – or, even better, the master bedroom at his house, or just Timmy's tiny apartment. But needs must when the devil drives – and so he now stands at the designer sink of Chrome Hearts headquarters in the West Village, idly washing his hands, waiting for Timmy to turn up.

Initially, Armie had fantasized to tie Timmy up – but that poses quite a challenge in a public toilet. This specific scene would have to wait for later, when he'd take Timmy home. Right now, he just needs something to take the edge off, or he might get insanely drunk and do something very stupid.

Thank god he's alone in here, at least for now. The party's well under way, no one will realize that he's gone – and that Timmy vanished a moment later. At least he hopes so but, frankly, he doesn't care too much at this point. Let them talk. Let them stare. Let them speculate. He and Timmy aren't doing anything to be ashamed off.

Armie stares at his reflection in the mirror and is almost shocked by the heat in his gaze.

The door swings open and Timmy saunters in, followed by another guest who makes his way over to the urinals but can't refrain from glancing curiously at the two Hollywood stars he's sharing this space with. Timmy walks up to the sink, takes his cap off and rakes his fingers through his unruly curls while Armie dries his hands off with one of the small fluffy towels provided by their hosts.

They look at each other in the mirror but don't say a word. When the other man has finished his business, he walks over to wash his hands as well and Timmy moves to the side before closing the door to one of the cubicles. Armie still meticulously dabs at his hands and takes all the time in the world until the intruder leaves, giving him one of his well-rehearsed impersonal smiles.

When they are finally alone, he literally bursts through the door of Timmy's stall, crashing his lithe body against its side, already breathless.

“I thought he'd never fuck off.” Armie groans before pressing his mouth to Timmy's, almost biting his lips. He can just make a desperate low sound before an insistent tongue invades him. Armie needs this right now, needs to feel Timmy's lean frame melt against him, needs to hear the desperate noises he makes, needs to feel hot skin and taste him...

The flavor of copper fills his mouth. He must have broken Timmy's lip. But instead of letting go he only sucks harder. The taste appeals to Armie's most base, primal notions. Timmy moans as if in pain but doesn't fight him or push him away. He surrenders, accepting the onslaught.

Suddenly, Armie pulls away, but with the same movement his large left hand closes around Timmy's delicate throat, gripping him right below his jaw. Armie's finger nearly span his thin neck as they wrap around it; Timmy's Adam's apple bobs against Armie's palm as his grip tightens when he squeezes.

“I'd love to tie you up properly, but that'll have to wait.” Armie whispers into Timmy's ear, watching as his eyes go wide and dark before fluttering shut. “We'll play a different game.”

Timmy's whole body goes slack when Armie reaches into one of the pockets of his trousers to bring out a pocket knife he always carries with him regardless of the occasion. It has a bottle opener attached to it and can be incredibly useful even at the poshest events.

But now he needs the sharp blade.

It's a slim, elegant switchblade, the handle made of polished horn with silver bolsters. When the sharp knife flicks open, the light form the ceiling lamp catches on the four inches of stainless steel, its reflections dancing over Timmy's face. Timmy's eyes snap open as well and he stares at the weapon Armie holds up close to his face with morbid curiosity.

When the cold metal touches his cheek, Timmy inhales quickly, his mouth falling open.

“Don't make any noise.” Armie instructs him as his hand tightens even more around Timmy's throat. The flat side of the blade caresses Timmy's face, his prominent cheekbones, his chiseled chin, pressing against his parted lips.

Timmy's tongue flicks out and licks the knife, pressing obscenely red, wet and flat against the silver, a lewd contrast of unyielding metal against vulnerable flesh. As Timmy's tongue curls around the blade, he intentionally cuts himself. A thin rivulet of blood runs down the stiletto, over its handle, until it drips on Armie's fingers. He carefully pulls back. Timmy licks his lips, smearing them a dark crimson, his own blood painting his mouth as if he'd used an eerie, cruel lipstick.

Armie presses his bloodied fingers to his own mouth and sucks them clean while Timmy watches, his breathing speeding up. Armie other hand squeezes Timmy's windpipe until his eyes start to protrude from their sockets and his fingers begin to twitch. Only when he seems to pass out does Armie release him a tiny fraction, making it quite clear who's in charge here, even of Timmy's basic needs, like air.

Timmy's wearing a strange combination of a white t-shirt with a dark green shirt over it, buttoned up over his chest and open below. Armie's quick to slice of the three buttons keeping it together. They fall to the tiled floor with a sharp clatter and roll every which way. Neither of them cares.

“Do you want me to cut you?” Armie asks, his voice deep and rough with arousal. The taste of Timmy's blood fills his mouth while the scent of it fills his nostrils. But there's something beneath it – the intoxicating smell of sweat and arousal. Timmy didn't shower after stepping off that plane, and now he's breaking in a cold sweat because he's not sure how far Armie will go with this.

Good.

Armie can feel Timmy swallow against his hand as he nods in response, giving Armie all the permission he needs. He puts the knife between his teeth and quickly undoes Timmy's trousers, a clingy designer model made of dark-blue velvet. He pushes it down to mid-thigh, making short work of Timmy's pants as well, before pressing the blade flat to Timmy's cock straining upwards against his almost concave belly, stroking him with the dangerous weapon in his most vulnerable places.

Timmy's got very little hair down there between his legs; it's more a downy fur compared to Armie's rich golden curls. But as Armie scrapes the sharp blade over Timmy's pubic bone, he still leaves a distinct naked path behind. Goosebumps bloom on Timmy's pale skin.

Armie places his first slash at the junction of leg and groin. It's just a shallow cut, superficial, but the dark red blood wells up quickly nonetheless, a stark contrast to the milky white skin down there, never touched by sunlight, not even back in Italy. Timmy sucks in a breath but doesn't flinch.

The following gash is deeper as Armie drags the knife up Timmy's left thigh. It hurts. Timmy hisses in pain as blood starts to drip down his leg. Thankfully, the dark fabric of his trousers catches and conceiles it but Timmy's muscle quivers and trembles under Armie's touch. It's like holding a little sparrow in your hand. Armie knows that cutting a little deeper about two inches to the left will have Timmy bleed out in no time. He's kind of holding Timmy's life in his huge hands and the trust displayed here nearly knocks him sideways.

Timmy presses his lips tightly together as not to groan in agony when Armie drags the sharp blade across his lower abdomen, leaving a thin red line in it's wake. The cut isn't deep but the skin there is exceptional sensitive. To still Timmy, who's started to squirm, Armie brings the knife back down to the base of Timmy's hard cock, placing it between his root and his testicles. Timmy freezes instantly.

“I could just cut you there.” Armie whispers.

“Please...” Timmy's voice is thin both with fear and arousal. Armie isn't sure if he's begging him to proceed or to stop. His hand closes once again around Timmy's throat to shut him up until his eyes roll back ín his head and he dangles from Armie's grip like a limp rag doll, unable to move or breathe. 

Armie feels his heartbeat in his fingertips, staring at the white of Timmy's eyes. Just a few seconds and Timmy will loose consciousness...

Suddenly, Armie replaces his hand with the knife to Timmy's neck. The boy slumps slightly forward as he's released, almost falling into the blade but catching himself at the last moment. Armie's now free left hand closes around Timmy's hot shaft, and it only takes a few pulls before he comes all over himself and his blood-streaked belly and leg.

Armie makes him suck his fingers clean, the knife still at his throat. Timmy obeys, his eyes huge and watery in his pale face. Armie is so hard he worries he might come in his pants.

“On your knees.” He presses the knife even closer, almost breaking the skin in a place clearly visible, but Timmy sinks obediently down onto the floor and frees Armie's erection. He swallows him down with the cold metal against his jugular vein. One cut and he'd spray the walls with his deep red blood right now pulsing in his ears. Armie can see his heartbeat hammer in his throat and is almost tempted to do it, to slice Timmy's throat from ear to ear to get a glimpse inside this body that drives him insane. He wants to flay him, lay him open, peel back his white skin to discover what it is about this boy that makes him throw all worries to the wind and go for what he craves – what they both crave in fact.

He doesn't realize he cut Timmy's throat until a single drop of blood runs down the side of his neck. Armie has to close his eyes and take a deep breath. His hand holding the knife is shaking. It would be so easy. Timmy is so fragile. He wouldn't even know what's happening until it was too late. 

Armie has some fantasies concerning Timmy that he nourishes in the darker depths of his mind and would describe as outright sick. One is to bite some flesh from Timmy's body where no-one can see and eat it, raw, swallowing him like Oliver did with the peach to become one with his lover, to incorporate him into his bloodstream. Another fantasy is to make Timmy cut off a toe or perhaps his little finger for Armie so that he could carry it around as some sort on twisted token of love.

Armie is both frightened and profoundly aroused by those ideas. Knowing how wrong this is only adds to his pleasure.

But instead of mutilation, while still thinking about it, Armie grabs the back of Timmy's head, burying his fingers in his slightly greasy curls as he starts to fuck his face without restraint. He doesn't care that Timmy's lip is split and his tongue is still bleeding, smearing his shaft with a pale pink mixture of blood and saliva that is also dripping down Timmy's chin. 

Armie can feel him choke and struggle on his knees but doesn't stop. He doubts Timmy wants him to, judging from the way he grabs his thighs and opens his throat, grunting like an animal in heat. As Armie's cockhead slides deep down into Timmy's bloody mouth, Timmy moans around him, tears running down his cheeks. Armie comes so hard that his legs nearly give out.

“Jesus...” He sighs as he helps Timmy up again and straightens his clothes as best as possible. Afterwards, Timmy's still disheveled. He won't be able to stay long at the party, that's for sure. The cuts are not that deep but need to be seen to and get disinfected; his thigh might even need some bandaging. 

Armie gently guides Timmy out of the stall and over to the sink where he splashes cold water onto his face before wiping away the spit, blood and come mix with another towel. Just as he's finished to clean his own face, washing down Timmy's blood on his lips with his hands, the door opens again and another man walks in.

As he sees them, he stops in his tracks and asks: “The dude alright?”

Timmy freezes and bows his head to hide the smirk spreading on his face.

“Yeah, just can't hold his liquor.”

The man smiles and shakes his head as he goes over to the urinals to relieve himself. Armie throws an arm around Timmy's shoulder under the pretense of steadying him to lead him out of the toilets and back to the main floor.

Just as they enter the party space Armie takes one last look to check and swiftly turns Timmy's shirt collar up to hide the small cut to his throat. They both grin at each other like maniacs before reluctantly separating. Armie desperately wants to kiss hi but knows he shouldn't, not here where everyone can see them. Fuck it! Sometimes, he profoundly hates the double life he's still leading for the sake of it.

To dampen his anger he lights another cigarette and walks over to his wife to tell her that Timmy's unwell and wants to go home. She has to understand that he can't possibly leave him alone. Liz takes one look at her husband and nods before turning back to continue to dance with a fit hunk with dark hair and surprising blue eyes. She's sorted then.

Timmy watches the exchange, having grabbed one of the champagne flutes passed around by silent waiters. His throat hurts as he drowns the bubbly liquid down but he feels he needs it to calm his nerves. Armie's said he wants to tie him up. He's in for a treat tonight.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to tie Timmy up.

„Where's your first aid kit?“ Armie asks, looking around Timmy's tiny bathroom. If he'd stretch out his arms he could touch the walls. Timmy's sitting on the closed toilet seat, his trousers pulled down around his ankles, the fabric sticky with dried blood.

„My what? Dude, I don't even own an iron or a vac, how am I supposed to have a first aid kit?“ Timmy sounds incredulous. 

Kids these days...

“You should get one,” is all Armie replies before ripping one of Timmy's thin towels apart to wind it around his thigh. The cut has stopped bleeding but still needs to be covered. The gash to Timmy's stomach is thankfully just superficial, as is the wound on his neck.

“Do you at least have some plasters?”

Timmy points to a drawer under the small sink in which Armie finds an open packet. “Spider Man?” He asks, raising his eyebrows.

“It was a joke, a gift from Pauline after I auditioned for the part and didn't get it.” Timmy shrugs.

“Nice.” Armie grins.

“You know how she is...,” Timmy smiles back, tilting his head so Armie can apply the band aid. He swallows when Armie moves back, looking up as if asking 'and now – what?'

Armie stares down at him, a slightly dazed expression on his face as he swipes the pad of his thumb over Timmy's still sore bottom lip.

“Drink some water. I'm having a fag on that ledge you call a balcony. I want you naked and prepared face down on your mattress in ten minutes.” Armie leaves him without waiting for an answer.

\----------

While he lights up on the narrow square of concrete high above Manhattan, he imagines Timmy undressing before padding over into his equally tiny bedroom containing just his double mattress and a chest of drawers which holds beneath his clothes spools of soft black hemp rope. By now Timmy would be grabbing the lube stashed carelessly on a pile of books next to his bed, coat the index and middle finger of his right hand and start to circle his tight pink hole. He'd spread his knees a little wider to get better access, his head and shoulders lowered against the still rumpled sheets - not changed since their last encounter weeks ago 'cause Timmy is a dirty little bugger - as he fingers himself open.

Armie closes his eyes, takes a long drag and can almost hear the sounds Timmy's body makes as he enters himself, his little pink hole stretching around his delicate bony fingers as his body adjust to the intrusion. His painful hiss would morph into a soft sigh when he finds his prostate, rubbing it gently while his long slim cock stiffens, the head already exposed, shining wet. He'd start dripping soon – Timmy always gets so very wet when he's allowed to touch his sweet spot – making a mess of the ruined sheets.

When his mental images have him so hard in his pants that it's almost uncomfortable Armie stubs out his cigarette, grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and steps into the brightly lit bedroom.

Timmy enjoys to be seen like this, spread wide, already three fingers knuckle-deep inside himself. He's a tart, hungry for attention, but he also likes to show Armie what a good boy he is. For him, just for him. He outright serves himself on a plate, arse high up in the air, his pale back glistening with sweat, dark curls fanned out like a halo on the pillows, hiding his face. His slim hips buck and rotate as he tries to push in even deeper while moaning like a horny slut eager for a good, hard fucking.

Armie needs a moment to take it all in before he lowers himself onto the mattress behind Timmy to pull his cheeks further apart, giving him a better view. Timmy's rim is slick with lube, allowing his fingers to easily slide in and out as he speeds up.

“Yeah, come on, Timmy, show me how much you want it. Fuck yourself for me. Are you hard?” Armie reaches between his legs to feel Timmy's hot stiff cock slap against his palm. He gives it a few loose strokes until Timmy's thighs start to tremble. Thinking about the cut he made there, Armie lets go of him. It's not conducive for his plans for tonight if Timmy starts bleeding again.

“Can you take four fingers? I'm sure you can. Do it. Show me what a greedy hussy you are.”

Timmy whimpers softly as he tries to add his little finger, struggling to fit them all inside his still tight hole.

“Wait, let me help you.” Armie gathers saliva in his mouth before aiming for Timmy's pucker. The thick white spit adds just the amount of slick needed so Timmy's finger can eventually slide home. He grunts, feeling open and exposed, but doesn't stop fingering himself, eager to please Armie who has started to massage his stretched sphincter with both his thumbs, gently rubbing the reddened ring of muscle before pulling it wider apart.

He spits again, and this time his saliva hits Timmy's insides. He watches enraptured as the mixture of spittle and lube starts to drip from Timmy's hole, oozing down his seam until the viscous gunk hits his balls.

Timmy groans, gyrating his hips as he starts to beg for Armie to fuck him, to push inside him, to take him, hard.

Armie just grins as he teases Timmy until he's a sobbing mess, pleading for release.

“Please, Armie, please, I need to... oh god, this feels so good, just touch me, please, just a little, please... I do anything you want... just, please... I want you inside me.”

But it's to no avail. They both know that Timmy won't be allowed to come for a long while tonight. This is just foreplay to get him desperate, into the mood Armie wants him to be in before the real fun begins.

Because when Timmy starts to snap his hips in earnest, driving into himself so deep his knuckles slam against his slick perineum in a frantic, angry rhythm, Armie stills him with a firm grip to his waist.

“Shh, calm down. I think you're getting a little too excited. Watch out that you won't bleed again.”

Timmy whines in response but stops moving. This hadn’t always been the case. Armie remembers the last time Timmy didn't listen and afterwards had trouble sitting for three long days, which was especially shit because they had a 12 hour flight ahead of them during which he squirmed relentlessly in his seat, much to Armie's amusement. Good thing is that the punishment Armie had administered back then seems to finally have taught Timmy a lesson in obedience.

As Armie presses him down onto the mattress, Timmy gasps when the motion pulls his fingers out of him and lands him into the cold, wet spot on the sheets where his precome has pooled in a gooey puddle.

Armie positions his wiry arms next to his body before standing up to get his gear. It’s stashed in the bottom drawer, the dark rope so soft he has to bind Timmy really tight to leave the marks he so loves, especially on that creamy alabaster skin.

Armie takes his time despite Timmy’s little moans and wanton cries. He relishes tying up the lean body the way he wants: first, he binds Timmy's wrists together at the small of his back, followed by more rope wound around his thin upper arms, pulling them back so far that his shoulder blades almost touch. The black hemp is a beautiful contrast to Timmy’s white skin, making Armie so hard that he would come in his pants if their little encounter in the gents hadn’t taken the edge off things earlier.

After having secured Timmy’s arms, Armie moves on to his slender legs. He bends them at the knees, his palms stroking up over almost hairless shins and the bony instep of Timmy’s feet right up to his long toes. Armie loves to suck them sometimes but right now he’s not in the mood for tender caresses.

Instead, he ties Timmy’s slim ankles together before lacing the long ends of the rope first through the knots on his wrists and arms, finally winding them a few times around his neck below his prominent Adam’s apple before threading it back down his body, securing the ends by tying a knot around the piece of rope binding Timmy's legs.

Timmy’s perfectly hogtied, and it’s the most beautiful and erotic sight Armie can imagine. If he’ll move – and move he’ll eventually will – the rope will tighten around his neck, choking him. Armie’s been careful to avoid the small cut there he made earlier. Nothing turns him on so hard as Timmy desperately fighting for air.

He takes his phone out to snap a picture, storing it as wanking material for the times they'll be apart. Also, should Timmy start to resist his ideas and advances, he can always threaten him to post these pics on Instagram... He doubts he needs such lever but one never knows; Timmy's still so very young and might not have fully grasped the nature of his commitment.

Now, the fun part begins – at least for Armie.

Because soon, Timmy's pale body is straining in his bounds. The position gets uncomfortable even after a short while because Armie has given no slack. Already after a few minutes, Timmy’s limbs begin to tremble, starting in his arms, forced together and backwards, almost dislocating his shoulder joints. The quiver moves down into his bend legs, and as he jerks and twists the rope pulls tight around his throat. To ease the strain, Timmy raises his head a little but when the muscles in his neck start to cramp he has to let his head fall forward; the rope once again tightens around his windpipe, taking his breath away.

All the time, Armie watches. He’s sitting in a chair he dragged over from the lounge, fully dressed, and witnesses Timmy’s increasing agony. He's panting as his body starts to yank against the rope, shortening his air supply even further as he's fighting the inevitable. He'll eventually has to give in, accept Armie's control over him, lean into the rope holding him down instead of struggling against it. But he's not quite there. It takes time to surrender, and Armie savors every second of it. It's easy to dominate the weak and gullible. His Timmy is neither. On the contrary, he's quite a handful, a true challenge. Armie loves it.

It always takes Timmy a while to accept that his ties are not there to torture him; instead, they are like an embrace, an extension of Armie's strong body. The agony Timmy feels is what he needs to get to that point where he can let go and fall. That's what Armie provides for him.

He's also there to catch him.

Witnessing Timmy reaching that space in his head where the pain his body experiences is transformed into a turn-on is a sight to behold. As he writhes on the bed, Armie listens to his exceedingly labored breathing because of the rope digging into his throat. There's already a red stripe visible. He'll have to wear a turtleneck tomorrow. Armie so loves marking him that way, knowing all the bruises on Timmy's body are his doing. When he almost accidentally touches them from time to time in public to make Timmy jump they share a secret smile. 

And so Armie watches. By now he knows the signs when Timmy starts to go under. First, he casts down his eyes, averting his gaze that has been fixed on Armie as if he's his anchor in this turmoil. Moments later, his eyes flutter shut, dark lashes fanning over slightly reddened cheeks. His breath is coming in shallow huffs but Armie knows what he's doing. There's a pair of bandage scissors on top of the chest of drawers in case the ropes have to be removed quickly.

Timmy flexes his fingers behind his back until they eventually slacken. Shudders run through his body from head to toes but they subside after a while. His mouth hangs open, his sweaty face turned to the side Armie is sitting because Timmy knows that his lover likes to watch him like this, his expressive face unguarded and vulnerable, clearly displaying his increasingly detached state of mind. When his eyes eventually snap open again, they are dark and glazed over, his green irises drowned out by his diluted black pupils.

He's finally arrived at the point where he relents, giving himself over. Armie has to be careful now. Timmy's fragile, exposed, trusting him literally with his life. Armie could do anything to him now, could pull the rope tight until Timmy's jerks turn violent and then cease altogether. He could use his knife on him some more, cut him open and watch him bleed. He could beat him, kick him, hurt him – and Timmy wouldn't stop him, would probably not even scream but would take it, all of it.

The worst would be if Armie just left him like this. He could. He could walk away from this apartment, from New York, while he keeps Timmy tied up like this. Three days without water, they say, three weeks without food. The thought has crossed Armie's mind – making Timmy totally dependent on him, even storing him like this in a box in his house in LA, taking him out like a fuckdoll every time he feels like it. He would be his and his alone, he wouldn't have to share him with the world...

He doesn't allow those thoughts to creep up very often but in moments like this when he watches Timmy break and go to pieces in front of him in the most beautiful way, he indulges in them just for a second. He needs to be in the right mood for this, to be able to control and take without hesitation, without mercy, but it's a thin line to walk. It's not about destroying Timmy completely, but to wreck him and piece him back together in a way he himself couldn't. He's malleable in this state, offering himself up to Armie. Armie's aware of his responsibility as he holds Timmy's fragile heart in his hand. It almost kills him. But they are in this together.

When Timmy goes still and his muscles relax, his slack features and hazy look shows Armie that his mind is now fully embracing this submissive state. He's crossed the Rubicon.

Armie's hard, has been so for a long time, but this is not just about climaxing. There's a dynamic at play between them, a give and take, like an intricate dance, navigated without words, just by light touches and subtle looks. Armie's eyes stare directly into Timmy's who's baring his very soul as his face contorts in unashamed need and want, so open, vulnerable, inviting.

Armie reaches out and brushes the sweaty curls from his boy's beautiful face to get a better look. The emotions that play out on those sharp features range from trust to desire to blissful abandon.

“I love you.” Armie whispers, bowing down to place a tender kiss on Timmy's temple, tasting salt not just from sweat gathering there. Timmy's eyes close again, almost as if he falls asleep, but the tears continue to fall. Yet his breathing is even now, his body at ease. He knows where he belongs, right here; there's nothing outside of this scene that matters.

When Armie pulls his hair, he sighs with pleasure. When Armie's fingertips brush his white skin, he moans. Armie touches the rope holding him together and Timmy arches against Armie's hand, cherishing being safe like this, bound by the man he loves with every fiber of his being and who loves him back with the kind of fierce possessiveness that encompasses every relationship Armie ever allowed to make an impression on his life.

They simply complete each other.

Suddenly, the need to mark Timmy is overwhelming. He'd already cut, choked and immobilized him – what's lacking is to impregnate him. Armie eventually unzips and his cock springs free, hard and angry red. He needs only a few strokes to come all over Timmy's waiting face, his mouth and eyes wide open now to receive everything Armie's giving him. Armie coats his features in a thick layer of pearly cum, painting his lips, watching as white goo pools in Timmy's left eye-socket, his long lashes glued together with Armie's release.

It doesn't end here. Orgasms are just a byproduct of what they have. Spend, Armie lies down next to Timmy, smearing his spunk all over his delicate face, feeding it to him, stroking his thumb over his mother-of-pearl eyelids as they fall shut. 

Timmy will stay like this till the morning. From time to time, Armie will rub his arms and legs, covering him with the comforter to keep him warm. He'll lie next to him, making sure he's safe. Only in the wee hours will Timmy be allowed to come as Armie fingers him again, rubbing himself against the mattress as best as the ropes allow for.

They both love what they share. This is private; this is who they really are. And nobody is going to take it away from them. Ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it, I hope it wasn't too dark...  
> Hit me up on [tumblr](https://isitandwonder.tumblr.com/) if you like.


End file.
